bearing straight corpses and yearly interpretation tunnels weekly
Whisper, and go away. The pain is forcing the blame to take blame. You know I would tell you why, but you are dangling from the memory of a tooth that fell off while you were sleeping in a threaded handbag designed to be shown. The maturity is enough to make me laugh my way into the black corner of memory mode and laugh once more for you still smell like your tendons. They are dangling ever so gently from your eyelashes and sweeping demonically through the ages. Remember, I can still see you, so close your eyes quick before they blister, whisper.